


Couldn't Forget This

by AJfanfic



Series: Geraskier Week 2020 [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Geraskier Week, Getting Together, M/M, monster hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:50:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22717768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJfanfic/pseuds/AJfanfic
Summary: “It’s as much yours as it is mine.” He tapped the cover. “It’s all our stories. Every monster hunt, every curse, every time you rescued me from my own bad decisions. I felt like it deserved to exist in a way other people could understand, even if they won’t.” His voice quieted. “It’s more important that you do, anyway,” he said, as though it was a confession of some great sin.Jaskier does something kind of foolish and certainly brave to save his notebook. Geralt asks him why.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635637
Comments: 11
Kudos: 356





	Couldn't Forget This

There was something almost beautiful about it. Terrifying, of course, but beautiful, thought Jaskier, sprawled on his back in the flattened wheat. Geralt wove through the dancers like he was under the noonwraith’s sway himself, only the deadly focus of his movements distinguishing him from them.  _ This will make the best ballad.  _ The white wolf, glowing in the sunlight with the golden light of Quen, stalking the bitter remnant of tragedy. A much more pleasing image than last week’s: Geralt covered in mud and drowner guts, cursing up a storm as Jaskier attempted to brush the muck out of his hair.

Jaskier reached for his notebook. It wasn’t in the pouch on his belt where it had been, without fail, for the last sixteen years. He searched the ground around him frantically. It must have been flung free when Aard-pushed him clear of the wraith’s circle.

There. Halfway across the circle of blackened wheat, trampled flat by the dancers, was a small leatherbound book. He didn’t dare run to it despite how desperately he wanted to have it safe in his hands. Geralt’s flashing sword and the whirling limbs of the frantic dancers curbed his impulsivity. Jaskier climbed to his knees and crawled into the waist-high wheat. He followed the circle, slowly, the heat oppressive along his side. When it seemed he’d gone far enough, he peeked out through the stalks. It was just up ahead, further into the circle than he’d realized.

There was nothing for it. The edges of the paper had already begun to curl and brown. If it burned completely, Jaskier wasn’t sure what he’d do. There were so many moments in those pages he couldn’t bear to lose. The poet grit his teeth and stepped into the circle.

The effect was immediate. Jaskier felt as drunk as he had been on the day of his sixteenth birthday. He had stumbled home with some man and woken up hungover in a stranger’s bed the next day for the first time. He wanted to dance, he  _ needed _ to dance. It burned in him as hot as the heat waves rippling through the air. It hurt how badly he needed it. Jaskier felt his resolve breaking. He lunged for the notebook. The metal of the clasp seared his hand, but he had it. Jaskier clutched the book to his chest. He had to get out of the circle. He couldn't make his feet move. He spun to Geralt, putting his all into resisting the song of the wraith.

The Witcher had forced the wraith to remain corporeal. As Jaskier watched, he cut it down with three quick, brutal swipes. The heat dissipated, the sickening pull in his gut released. The dancers stopped, collapsing to the ground in exhaustion. Jaskier shoved the notebook back into his belt and offered a hand to the woman closest to him.

After they returned the villagers to their homes and collected their reward, Jaskier sat by the fire. He scribbled the words that had come to him earlier, not wanting to forget anything before it could be committed to paper and, in turn, to public memory. Geralt didn’t speak until the scratch of his pen had stopped.

"Why did you risk your life for that?" Geralt nodded towards the notebook in the bard's hands.

Jaskier turned it over in his hands, feeling the cracked leather spine and singed edges. "I need my stories, Geralt, in a way that you and everyone else doesn't." He sighed. "They let me be a hundred men who are braver than I am. They let me be someone whose life mattered enough to be remembered."

"That's not true. I-" Geralt paused, hunting for the words he so rarely used. "I need them too. They let me believe I'm a better man than I am."

They sat in silence, shoulder to shoulder until the fire had burned low. Shadows danced across the poet's profile. He looked older, Geralt though, or maybe he just looked his age. Two decades they'd been on the road, together and apart and together again. He'd been so young when they met. Naïve and flashy and fearless.

"For what it's worth," Jaskier said, "I think you're a good man."

Geralt's hair obscured his expression as he looked down at his lap. "You matter to me, for what it's worth. I'll always remember you."

There was something deeply sad in Jaskier’s voice when he said, "Always could be a very long time, for you."

"Or a very short time. Either way, I will. I couldn't forget."

Jaskier leaned against his side. He rested his head against Geralt's shoulder and didn't mind at all the hard plane of his armor. "I want you to keep the notebook when I don't need it anymore.”

“Okay.” It didn’t feel like something he was allowed to argue with. “Why? Why not give it to someone who could publish it, teach lectures on your work?” Geralt was almost teasing, but he still couldn’t look at Jaskier.

“It’s as much yours as it is mine.” He tapped the cover. “It’s all our stories. Every monster hunt, every curse, every time you rescued me from my own bad decisions. I felt like it deserved to exist in a way other people could understand, even if they won’t.” His voice quieted. “It’s more important that you do, anyway,” he said, as though it was a confession of some great sin.

“I think I do. Understand.”

Jaskier pulled away, turning so he could face Geralt. In the orange light of the fire, Geralt could have been a normal man. His amber cat-like eyes could simply be hazel, his bleached white hair could simply be blond, his chalky skin could warm and tan from the sun. The calluses on his hands, unique even among swordsmen, could only belong to him when he cupped Jaskier’s face like he was something precious. The scars across the backs of them could only belong to him when Jaskier covered his hand with his own, holding him in place. Their kiss could only have been here, now, at this moment. Jaskier, for once, feels no need to write it down. He couldn’t forget this.


End file.
